


Complications

by Minutia_R



Category: Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-19
Updated: 2011-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/pseuds/Minutia_R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It was astonishing, how quickly taking tea in the right sort of hotel had gone from the most natural thing in the world to an exercise in deception more heart-poundingly daring than the games of spies and assassins she had played as a child.  </i>Haven't I seen you on Coven Street?  You live above Mrs. Sharp's, don't you, love?</p><p>Christopher and his cousin Caroline, both about to become parents, meet for tea and conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complications

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dracutgrl and Ferlinda the Dreamweaver, princesses among betas.
> 
> Also, I first encountered the idea that Roger and Julia are twins in mikeneko's story [Modus Vivendi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7353/chapters/9470) (which, if you are at all interested in Cat/Tonino and haven't read, why not?) and for me it was one of those obvious-in-retrospect things.

Caroline looked sideways at her reflection in the tall windows, smoothed her skirts, and touched one of her earrings for luck. The memory of when Frank had given them to her still shone brighter than the stones themselves. Sitting in the greenhouse beneath a shelf of orchids, Frank kneeling by her feet, she had giggled as he fastened them in her ears, and shivered with delight as he followed them up with a row of kisses, down her neck and into the hollow of her throat. He had claimed the kisses as his reward, which seemed backwards to Caroline; the diamonds were nice, but it had been the kisses she coveted.

Back then, forbidden love had been something secret and thrilling; now it was a flat where the pipes leaked, and worrying about whether it was more important to pay the butcher's bill or the grocer's this week. And the earrings, once a pledge of passionate devotion, had become a pledge of a solemner sort. _We could always sell the earrings. Therefore, if we haven't sold the earrings, things aren't as bad as all that._ Promise first, and jewelry decidedly second; she couldn't have worn them openly then, and she never wore them now. Except when she was passing as Caroline Chant, of the Surrey Chants, you know. Never mind that she actually was.

It was astonishing, how quickly taking tea in the right sort of hotel had gone from the most natural thing in the world to an exercise in deception more heart-poundingly daring than the games of spies and assassins she had played as a child. _Haven't I seen you on Coven Street? You live above Mrs. Sharp's, don't you, love?_

And here came her partner-in-crime now, as he had sometimes been in those long-ago games of spies and assassins. Caroline's nerves eased a bit. No one would dare ask those immaculate shirt cuffs, that impossibly tall and shiny hat, that forbidding expression if _they_ belonged on Coven Street.

"Caroline," said Christopher, forbidding expression melting into something warmer. "Every time I see you, you look lovelier."

Caroline smiled, and took his arm, and they went into the hotel together. A waiter showed them to a table, and brought the tea things, and sandwiches, and cakes. "How's Millie?" asked Caroline, as she poured.

"Glowing," said Christopher. Given his wife's exotic background, and considerable magical talent, he might or might not have been speaking metaphorically. "She sends her love. She would have liked to have come and, er, talked shop, but her doctor says she mustn't travel. Twins, you know."

Caroline lowered her eyes. If she had continued to meet Christopher's, she couldn't have helped laughing at the undercurrent of panic in his voice.

"And how is your husband?" he went on, after a brief silence.

"Frank is doing well," said Caroline. "He had to stay late at the office today, otherwise I'm sure he would have, would have been happy to . . ."

Christopher raised his eyebrows. "Quite," he said, and took a sip of tea.

Caroline had never understood what it was between Frank and Christopher. Frank, when asked, would launch into a string of colorful but uninformative insults. Christopher would only say, _I have nothing whatsoever against your husband, Caroline. Good heavens, what an idea._ So Caroline had to let the matter rest. But it was awkward, especially since Christopher was the only relative they had who spoke to them at all, anymore.

The silence as Caroline and Christopher busied themselves with tea and sandwiches was companionable rather than awkward, however. Cucumber sandwiches were cucumber sandwiches the whole world round, Caroline supposed, but the tea was better than she had at home, dark and smoky. Christopher seemed preoccupied, but then he usually did. It wasn't just the job—he had been like that since Caroline had known him.

Finally he took a slip of paper from his pocket, and coughed, and said, "Er, I wanted to—I know things have been difficult, and since I—that is—"

If there was a graceful way to do this, it was clear Christopher didn't know it. Caroline took pity on him and forestalled further stammering by accepting his slip of paper. It was a check, of course, but the number on it made Caroline's eyes widen. It was more than Frank brought home in a quarter. "Christopher . . . I can't take this," she said.

"You have hands, don't you?" said Christopher testily. He looked away, looked back, and tried again. "It's—it's for the baby, Caroline."

 _The baby._ Caroline's hand went to her belly before she thought. Barely round, she hadn't yet felt it move, but it was already keeping her up at nights. It would need so much—cradle, pram, clothes, nappies, food before long—and it took all of Caroline's managing to make Frank's salary support the two of them already. Her pride was one thing, but the baby was another.

"Besides, it's all in the family, isn't it?" said Christopher, more fluently now. "And since Uncle Charles cut you off, there's more for me in his will. It all comes around in the end."

Caroline laughed. Christopher had a vile sense of humor, but she laughed. "I doubt you're in my father's will," she said.

"Somebody's got to be," said Christopher. "I believe he was planning on leaving it all to the Home for Homeless Cats, until the homeless cats mortally offended him by carousing beneath his window."

"Oh, dear," said Caroline, giggling helplessly. "The Chants have a genius for feuding, don't we?"

"In our family, Baby's first words are traditionally, 'never darken my door again,'" agreed Christopher.

When she could stop laughing long enough to breathe, Caroline folded Christopher's check and tucked it into her handbag. "Thank you," she said softly.

Christopher shook his head, slightly, and that was that. He took a piece of cake, bit into it, frowned, and set it down on his plate. "But, you know," he said, "I don't think Uncle Conrad and Uncle Charles had the wrong of it entirely."

"What?" said Caroline, setting her teacup down in the saucer with a rattle.

"I don't mean cutting you off," Christopher said. " _That_ was cruel and stupid. But too much magic in a family, too much shared blood . . . it isn't good. _I_ married somebody as little related to me as possible."

Caroline raised her eyebrows, although she was sure she didn't do it as smoothly as Christopher. "An enchantress," she said.

"Yes, but from a different world. The magics aren't compatible. Our children should have medium-sized talents at most. Yours, on the other hand—I've seen things, in my work," Christopher said. "People driven mad by power, cities burned because the strongest wizard in them was a small child who didn't know what it was doing—I once saw a baby who lived a hundred years without aging since the day it was born. Too much magic in one person can be a horrifying thing."

"It isn't always," said Caroline. "Look at you."

"Yes, do," said Christopher. "I died six times before I was thirteen. Is that what you want for your child?"

Caroline wrapped her arms around herself. _No._ "I hear enough obstetrical horror stories from Mrs. Sharp," she said. "Christopher, what's the _point_?"

"The point is that there _is_ something you can do about it," said Christopher. "That is, I can. It's a very simple spell. And your child will be born without any magic at all."

"Not be able to do magic?" said Caroline.

"Lots of people can't," said Christopher.

"Yes, but . . . not Chants," said Caroline. She shook her head. "There might be something in what you say. But I'll have to talk it over with Frank." And Frank was still Francis Chant, of the Wiltshire Chants, and of Coven Street too. He'd love his child, magic or not, and do the best he could for it. But it would never occur to him to see its lack of talent as anything other than a tragedy.

"No, why?" said Christopher. He was leaning forward, his eyes bright. "You're here, the baby's here. It can be done in a minute. If you must tell Frank, you can always tell him afterwards."

 _Not tell Frank_ . . . Caroline felt dizzy. "That . . . you work for the Government," she said. Which was hardly relevant, but what did you _say_ to something like that? "That can't be legal."

"The uses of magic are extremely hard to codify," Christopher observed. "In the absence of written law or precedent—which there isn't in this case—the relevant authorities have traditionally been given a certain amount of leeway. The relevant authorities being, er, me."

"You'd—abuse your power like that?" said Caroline.

"I prefer to think of it as a matter of principle," said Christopher coldly. "I see no reason why decisions regarding a child's welfare shouldn't be made by the mother who carries it, rather than the father who may never look at it until it's ten years old. Your opinions may differ, of course."

"As if all your principles could make things right between me and Frank if I—" Caroline choked on the words; she couldn't say them. _If I betrayed him_. Frank, whom she loved, whom she had given up everything else in her life in order to keep—did Christopher think that didn't matter to her? Or was it just that it didn't matter to him? Caroline took the check back out of her handbag, and laid it on the table. "I don't think I can accept this."

"Surely you don't think I gave it to you on condition." How did Christopher get that arctic chill into his voice?

"Nevertheless," said Caroline.

"If you can't, you can't," said Christopher. "But in such a case, I don't think I can let you pay for tea. Even if it means counting out pennies all evening."

Caroline was beginning to understand why Frank always looked as if he'd like to kick Christopher's teeth in, whenever the two of them spoke. But she had learned as a child that you don't dare Christopher to do a thing if you don't want to see it done. Silently, she returned the check to her handbag.

"Mind you cash it," said Christopher. "I have a man who keeps careful track of these things."

Did he, by God. Of course he did. But something in Caroline's glare must have finally told Christopher that he'd gone too far—probably the way it pushed him backwards in his seat a good several inches.

"Caroline, I—I just want to help," he said.

The fury went out of her, and she was left weak and wobbly, like a balloon when the air has gone. "I know," she said shakily. "And I will talk to Frank, about what you said."

"Thank you," said Christopher, although they both knew that talking to Frank essentially meant _no_. Usually Caroline was able to prevail on Frank to be civil, when dealing with Christopher, but in this case she felt inclined to let him say whatever he liked.

So she settled the bill, and they left, Christopher to his castle and Caroline to her flat with the leaky pipes. She conjured a shawl to cover her too-fine dress, when she reached Coven Street, and took the earrings out of her ears with shaky fingers. She didn't think she'd be wearing them again any time soon. If they were going to be the Chants of Coven Street, it was time to _be_ the Chants of Coven Street.

Promise first, jewelry decidedly second—Caroline made an impulsive, silent promise to her daughter. _These will be yours someday. Things aren't as bad as all that. You and me and your dad, we'll be all right._ She scrubbed a hand across her face, and sniffed, and finished her thought savagely: _And if you ever get the chance, give your cousin-once-removed Christopher a kick for me._


End file.
